By Staff
Leada DeVaney, Hartselle Enquirer
My boyfriend, Greg, is an avid hunter. He eagerly awaits the start of each hunting season, checking out the magazines and television programs for the latest hunting equipment and gear.
"I really need this," he said as he thumbs through the magazines.
Then, armed with $1,000 rifle, $200 scent-repelling hunting jacket, $150 boots and a $400 scope, he heads off to his family's land in Mississippi, only to spend time sitting in an unheated, leaky shack, just waiting for the big one to arrive.
"This year is THE year," he said. Unfortunately, in the last several years the score has been deer 10 – Greg 0. He has nabbed an occasional turkey or pheasant but I suspect the deer are in more danger from him running over them in his car than they are from being shot.
The fancy, expensive rifle is as new and shiny as the day it was purchased.
This year was going to be different though.
This was THE year.
Greg doesn't get home from work until after dark, usually around 6-7 p.m.
About a month ago, he put his key in the door and walked in, dropping mail and his coat along the way. He turned to hit the light switch when he heard a noise in the house. It seemed to be coming from behind the curtain in the dining room.
"My first thought was that someone was in the house and I had left my pistol in the car," he said.
He grabbed the closest thing he could find – a broom – and snuck into the dining room.
No one was there.
Slowly, he reached over and turned on the lights. It was then he noticed the curtain moving, though whatever was causing the commotion was too small to be a person or even a large animal.
Assuming the hunter's stance, but with only a broom to fend off the intruder, Greg moved the curtain back slightly. It was then that a small, gray squirrel scampered up the curtains.
The intruder had been identified and he didn't look like he wanted to leave the top of the curtains any time soon.
The problem was, the only thing that stood between Greg and squirrel anarchy was a broom. Still, a good hunter has to do the best he can with what he has.
Charging at the squirrel, Greg took a swipe at the beast with the broom. No luck. The squirrel ran, but not out of the house.
"I think he was taunting me," Greg said.
He took another shot at sweeping the squirrel out of the house. No luck.
Things were getting desperate. He had two choices: kill the squirrel or let him stay and start charging him rent.
Greg chose the hunting option.
It was then Greg remembered his gun. Not the bright, shiny expensive gun, but the trusty old pellet gun he had used to, shall we say, cull the squirrel herd in his front yard.
"I knew I had him then," Greg said.
He got the gun. He snuck into the dining room.
No fancy gun.
No scent-capturing camouflage.
No scope.
No range finder.
Just a man, his pellet gun and a squirrel.
He took aim and fired…and missed. The squirrel ran to the bottom of the
curtains.
"The squirrel was starting to look really smug" Greg said.
Greg decided to take another shot.
He stepped behind the kitchen door, slowly turned the corner, aimed and then squeezed the trigger. The pellets went flying. They hit their target.
The squirrel was dead.
There were holes in the floor, the curtain was torn and squirrel pieces and parts were everywhere, but man had killed his enemy.
Greg 1 – squirrel 0.
"Are you going to have him mounted and hang him on the wall?" I asked.
"Well, no," he replied. "There isn't enough of him left to mount."
"Did you clean him and put him in the freezer so I could make squirrel dumplings," his 80-something year old Mississippi grandmother asked.
"Like I said," he replied. "There wasn't anything left."
The story of Greg and the squirrel has become famous in our office. Just last week, we had our company Christmas party, during which Greg was presented with a special present – a stuffed squirrel and a water gun.
"Can you mount a Beanie Baby?" he asked.
I don't know if you can or not. I just know somewhere out there in squirrel land, those little creatures are warning their friends to stay away from a certain house in Hazel Green, AL.
I can hear them now: "There's a guy there who swings a mean broom."